


Coffee, No sugar

by scalenesideburns



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-18
Updated: 2012-12-18
Packaged: 2017-11-21 10:23:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,900
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/596616
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scalenesideburns/pseuds/scalenesideburns
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A stab at Sherlock's return in the third season (based around BBC Sherlock). A few of Sherlock's personal items go missing from around the flat, and John Watson think's he's going insane.<br/>(The Johnlock is merely implied/ more a bro thing. Fluff/logical return sort of fic.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Coffee, No sugar

Sherlock frowned and blinked, taking a sip of his tea as he examined John grasping his cane and limping from the café. It was indeed a cozy place, small, posh, and angled. It was simply an easy place to sit conspicuously. Sherlock shook his head at the sight of John’s cane, he’d been using it since his death, and Mr. Holmes was upset by this fact. He put his cup to the saucer and placed some bills on the table. He extended his legs and stood, straightening his posture and fixing his collar before pursuing John. 

It had been two years since Mr. Holmes’ “death”, and it had hit John Watson remarkably hard. He’d had jobs off and on continuously, but Sherlock always attempted to remain as close to his companion as possible. He was tiring of keeping the charade up, he felt pity for John, he could see how much it hurt him, being alone. The circumstance embarrassed him. Maybe that’s what Sherlock enjoyed, knowing that somebody sincerely missed him. He pulled his scarf higher above his neck and rearranged his shaggy, dyed hair.

It was a dull, shaded day, overcast and foggy. A veil of mist surrounded the streets which were ridden with fresh mud and loose cobbles.

John occupied their old flat still. He could not seem to leave behind those memories, even if every time he walked through the door, they filled his head with regrets and sorrow. Sherlock stood at the base of the 221b Baker Street’s stairs, inspecting the door, contemplating his next move. He reached his hand towards the brass doorknob and shook his head- seeming to form an excuse in his mind as he retracted his hand and shoved it into the interior his pocket. Sherlock turned from the door and walked away, two sides in his head warring.

He was dressed rather differently, he was outfitted in baggy jeans, a purple t-shirt with some logo on it, and a charcoal grey coat. His hair was dyed a slightly lighter shade of brown, it remained similar to its natural colour, but had a different look. Mr. Holmes assumed that hiding in plain sight was the best route to take. His theory seemed to be proving correct. 

Sherlock made his way through the busy streets, considering his good friend, Doctor John Watson. He seemed to be sinking further into depression recently, which Sherlock found bizarre, because for the last year and a half, the Doctor seemed to have leveled out. He pondered this as he ambled through the dull day on the approach to his out of the way flat. Sherlock’s brow furrowed as he perceived a petite package resting upon his doorstep, he lifted it and strolled through the door and into his building, when he entered, he spotted his skull. He smirked and pulled it out, an interesting notion flickered through his mind, and his eyes began to unsteadily shine.

He drew a pack of cigarettes from his coat pocket, they were wrinkled, but the individual pieces were unharmed. Mr. Holmes plucked one from the pack as he locked the door of his apartment. The room had vivid yellow walls that made him flinch; Sherlock put the cigarette in his mouth and seated himself. He glanced at his skull and rested it on the table, carefully observing his cigarette. He rolled it between his thumb and forefinger, eyeing it before once more placing it in his mouth.

This time he lit it.

The smoke filled the air around him in spiraling, grey plumes; he closed his eyes, buried in the realm of his thoughts. He abruptly stood, and took a fleeting glance at his skull once more,

“Curious. I wonder if he has missed you. Or perhaps he believes Mrs. Hudson has been rid of you. Or maybe he has not perceived your absence…”

Sherlock stood up, placing his hands behind his back, grasping the cigarette in his lengthy, bony fingers. He paced the room, it was small, and did not offer as much room as 221b Baker street; but it worked well enough for his purposes. He yearned for his violin, but he knew the good Doctor would have noticed the absence of an artifact like the violin. Another idea sparked in his bright eyes, he sat down again, placing the thin killer between his jaws and taking another careful drag. He began toss around the idea of a way he could reintroduce himself into John’s life. He stood once more, extinguishing the life from his cigarette’s embers out on a coaster.

“If I walk to him in a public place, it could confuse him, or he may think it is much too impersonal. Or he may think I’m not real…he may believe I am another ramification of his PSD…”

Sherlock frowned, completely preoccupied on how to reveal his death as a façade, a pretense, charade. Unable to deduce what John’s reaction could possibly be, Sherlock sat down once again, reflecting. A scheme soon latched to his brain and he was indubitably contented with it.

John Watson paced along Baker street, again arriving from another day at his job, he moved quickly, looking at the pavement, as if he had nothing to look ahead to. He arrived at his apartment and grimaced when he walked in, memories. The doctor sat in his chair and looked around, his forehead crinkling as he noticed something was misplaced.

“Mrs. Hudson!”

He called, standing up, she came scuttling in, her hair in a loose bun and her aged face held the appearance of concern,

“What is it, John?”

She asked, apprehensive. He gestured to a vacant space along the wall,

“Did you take Sherlock’s violin…It’s gone…”

Miss Hudson’s lips turned down her eyes grew dim,

“I didn’t move it, John…”

She said, his eyes went dark and he looked downward, bemused and upset.

“Oh, well, I’m sorry…I…”

He said, sitting down, she dipped her head and left quietly.

The doctor stared at the spot, unable to comprehend why anybody would break in to pinch a violin. It seemed too deliberate, there was no evidence of its thief, nor were there any signs of a break in. John exhaled a groan and lay his hand on his face, attempting to smear the memory of a barista that looked eerily familiar. John had to revisit after being given his warm coffee. The man beamed, he boasted the same wrinkled grin, cheekbones, eyes, and face as Sherlock. It perplexed John, his hair was a lighter faded colour and his clothes were nothing like that of Sherlock’s. The one occurrence that caused him falter and in actuality, reflect over the occurrence was the presence of sugar in his coffee, when he ordered it with none.

He woke the next day with his hair disheveled and thick circles under his blue eyes. Doctor Watson stood and walked into his kitchen, creating his coffee and sitting down. He grasped for his cane, yet his fingers never gained the accomplishment of discovering anything. He gradually rose and walked to his room, thinking he’d forgotten it there, but when he entered his room, he could not locate it.

John shook his head and stooped to the floor, peering under his bed, but what he detected was not his cane, rather Sherlock’s skull. He extracted it from its dark hiding place and stared at it with sheer skepticism. He buckled onto the ground and put his back alongside the bed. John looked at the ceiling, his eyes wide and confused.

He had not seen the skull since Sherlock’s death.

He had not lost his cane.

He had not touched Sherlock’s violin.

John obscured his face in his hands, dropping the skull, doubting his own sanity, questioning his own eyes, wondering if he was losing his mind. There was no way Sherlock was alive. John had to stop in order to seize a deep breath and visualize what it would be like if Sherlock was really there. He pictured his tall figure treading though the doorway and frowning. He’d look at John and sit next to him, not appreciating what John had experienced after his death. John stood up, livid, because he could not begin to perceive what was happening.

He was there. He had seen his face on the pavement, among other things; he’d seen the blood, felt the pulse, or the lack there of one.

“Sherlock Holmes is dead.”

He was hardly able to choke out the words, his eyes held moisture; he wiped them in order to stop anything from coming.

Sherlock Holmes slipped from 221b Baker street for the second time that same day, carrying his violin and John’s stolen cane. He was attempting to rid John of the impression that he was truly gone, trying to put a single doubt in John’s mind, but it didn’t seem to be working. He marched around the back of the grey building and opened his case, he removed his violin and began walking down the ally, running his bow along the strings and grinning as a melodious tune escaped, Sherlock had long yearned for the companionship of his violin, for the familiar feel of the strings pressing back as his fingers demanded their adherence. 

John stirred from the floorboards to hear the doorbell ring, he uncurled himself and straightened, leaning against the bed for help he wiped his reddening eyes. He stumbled through the flat, the doorbell rang again,

“I’m coming, I’m coming!”

He shouted out, tightening his robe and running his hands through his mussed and disheveled hair. He unlocked it and swung it open, there was a package waiting on the entrance. John tilted over to lift it; it was strangely shaped and rather weighted. He positioned it on the table and sat, picking up his pot of coffee and gazing inside. It was cold; he let out an irritated sigh and quickly emptied the distressing pot into the drain.

Doctor Watson seated himself again, this time he could not resist but open the package, it wasn’t delivered by a postman, he had already observed the lack of a label, it was a small parcel enveloped in a piece of twine. He pulled the rough string hastily, without any real care, and watched as the paper unfolded itself. On top of the crumpled brown paper sat a thick white jumper, John lifted it and a note fell to the table, casting a little shadow until it softly and silently landed.

John set the sweater on the chair next to him and spread-out the bright sheet of white paper. There were words written upon it in thin, wired handwriting.

“I noticed you noticing this the other week. Come to your little café at four, sit in the back table.”

The doctor put his hand to his blond hair, combing it into place, he examined the time on his watch.

The cafe was swarming with people of every kind, yet Sherlock had made sure that the waitress was aware he wanted the table next to him reserved; he peered up from behind his magazine when he heard the door open again. John sauntered in, looking for his table, he walked to it, his eyes seeking somebody he may recognize, but he assumed they had not yet arrived. He sat down and crossed his hands on the table, gingerly waiting for the approach of his caller. The waitress walked over with a cup of fresh coffee specifically for him. The doctor’s curiosity was captured, he glanced at her for an answer, but she simply walked away without uttering a word. John stared into his coffee cup, it was black.

Mr. Holmes glanced over his magazine at Doctor Watson yet again, he was unable to stand up, he found himself incapable of devising the words he could say to John. He observed John as he looked around, most likely speculating the location of his anonymous jumper giver. Sherlock frowned and set down the magazine, it slid on the round table. He rose, smoothing the wrinkles from his charcoal coat and adjusting his scarf, he walked to John’s table.

Doctor Watson looked up,

“Oh, hello.”

“Do you mind if I sit here?” Sherlock inquired, John stiffly nodded as he carefully eyed the man. His eyes widened as he examined the man before him, he gave a soft shake of his head once, looked at the man again, and shook his head once more.

“Could I perhaps borrow your phone?” He asked, John’s brow furrowed.

“John. It’s me.” Sherlock said.

John did not look up.

“John.” He repeated.

John still did not look up, his head was shaking.

Sherlock twisted about, he put his head down and rose, he began to trudge away. He did not notice the tears saturating into John Watson’s black coffee.

“You’ve been dead for two years. Why?” He interrupted, stopping Sherlock’s movement, Sherlock become rigid and frowned, “I had to protect you.” He replied as if the answer was quite simple.

“Why would you think that would save me? How could you think that would save me?” He asked his wrists quivering which affected the table’s stability, causing it to shiver and quake. His voice hesitated and his head shook.

“They’d have killed you.” Sherlock replied, sitting down and softly placing his hands in front of him, “John. John I’m sorry I left you.”

John’s head was shaking his whole body was shaking with the movements of his table, he looked up and his eyes were crammed with things that he did not want to say in a public place. He stood up; placed sufficient funds on the table, and stiffly excused himself, squaring his shoulders.

Sherlock jumped up and pursued him,

“John!”

He ejaculated, but doctor Watson held his reserve and continued on his way, straight as a soldier, Sherlock fought against a crowd of blank faced people, but he could not catch up. The doctor had merged into the crowd like the sun into the ground and left.

John stared at the sky as he hastily made his way to 221b Baker street, blinking the tears away. It must have been Sherlock who was taking those things. He considered, grimacing at the thought of him seeing how poorly he’d behaved after his death. He rushed through the front door, ignoring Mrs. Hudson’s attempt at a greeting and walking to his flat. The doctor shook his head, not capable of taking the weight of the things pushing on his shoulders and burdening his mind. John sat in his chair, wringing his hands and clutching his pillow to him, the blue and red stripes changed shape as he held it, wrinkling and distorting the image.

Slow, rhythmic footsteps thudded outside of the door, the lock clicked and the door knob turned. Sherlock unbolted it and slithered in, John gazed up, he didn’t look away from Sherlock.

“John, it had to happen, you know that.”

John shook his head and stood,

“Sherlock, you could have told me.”

Sherlock’s brow crumpled in puzzlement, if he had told him, John wouldn’t have been protected, he didn’t understand why John didn’t seem to care about this.

“You don’t know how much it hurts. Being left behind.”

Sherlock opened his arms and John shook his head,

“Sherlock, I-“

His words were interrupted by Mr. Holmes’ arms folding around him,

“John, I’m trying, I really am, it was hard hiding myself from you for this long.” His hands trembled and he lowered his eyes.

John could not stand watching Sherlock in this much anguish, he wrapped his arms around Sherlock in return and held him there, like a child who did not wish for his mother to leave. Mr. Holmes put his head on Watson’s, and took a deep breath. He could feel his shirt dampening with John’s tears.  
“John, please forgive me.”  
His voice muffled through John’s hair as he gave him a kiss on the top of his warm head.  
Sherlock felt John’s head stirring, the movements resembled up and down.  
“I forgive you.”

Sherlock woke to the echo of a siren, his hair messy and adhering to his neck. He sat up, and a blur of something murky and dark loomed over his gaunt figure.  
“It was just a dream.” he choked out, closing his eyes and lying down, he revolved onto his side and became aware of a bump. He overlooked it and curled into a ball, pinching his nose.  
His hand explored the rest of the bed, only to rediscover a small mass of something under the sheets next to him. Sherlock looked up suddenly, thrilled; he drew them down to reveal a sleeping John. Sherlock’s breath wedged itself inside of his throat as he realized it was not fiction. The night before shot into his memory like a poison being injected into his wits.

John had wrapped his arms around Sherlock’s neck and they’d held each other for the longest span of time. One of them was drained, and they moved towards the bed. Sherlock had held John in his arms the entire night, Watson’s head quiescent against his collar bone.

John grunted and rolled over,  
“Sherlock.”  
He muttered through his dry mouth, Sherlock looked up, his blue eyes delirious with excitement, as he had once again found and recovered his Watson.  
“Get me some coffee, no sugar.”

**Author's Note:**

> My friend and I were discussing ways we thought Sherlock would return, this took me a while, as I was attempting to use more logical, straightforward, Arthur Conan Doyle-esque language. The Johnlock is merely implied/ more a bro thing. Fluff/logical return sort of fic.  
> Feedback?  
> (also I post more often on my fanfiction tumblr http://scalenesideburns.tumblr.com )


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